


You really don't remember, do you?

by Skaiaa



Category: Darkiplier - Fandom, Youtube RPF, markiplier - Fandom, youtube - Fandom
Genre: Hurt No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 18:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13507074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaiaa/pseuds/Skaiaa
Summary: Dark was bullied by Wilford Warfstache when they were both children. Wilford doesn't remember doing it.





	You really don't remember, do you?

Dark sat at his desk, staring out the window, the world around the manor encapsulated, floating in the void. He could flick his wrist and launch an image, but what was the point when the black only surrounded his room? There wasn’t any reason to adhere to anyone but himself in the comfort of his own solitude.

The demon looked down at his tea, sighing slightly as he saw his reflection, his iris flashing blue before getting caught and turning back to its normal color. Damien wanted to see the world, it seems. Dark just sighed and looked back out the window, thrumming his fingers around the teacup on the coaster, a dainty silver spoon resting on a napkin, from where he had stirred a truly absurd amount of sugar into it. It’s a relaxing beverage, Dark, not cotton candy in a cup.

The resonating heat from the little cup did little to warm his ever-so-frozen fingers, or quell his cold touch. He had tested it before by putting his arm in his fireplace. His skin cracked and peeled, but he hadn’t felt a thing but a stark lack of warmth. The demon counted it as a lost cause, but still clung to the little things like a warm cup of tea to try and fix his disposition anyway. It never worked.

Lost in his thoughts, the man didn’t notice the door to his study slip open, or that sweet smell of cotton candy and pure sugar slip in until it was looming over him, followed by an obnoxious pink floof of hair that smelt like berry dye, and a grinning face adorned with another splat of obnoxious pink.

“What’cha lookin’ at, Tall, Dark, and Terrifying?”

The voice next to his ear startled him, and Dark flailed, hitting the cup and sending it flying, spilling the milky liquid across his desk, a distinct crashing and shattering sound echoing with none too soft plinks of glass and porcelain against the hardwood floor. The mess sat as Dark tried to bring himself back into reality, blinking profusely as he willed both Damien and Celine back into his aura, both of them trying to soothe his sudden turmoil, which only stood to make him even angrier, annoyance flickering into his small range of emotions. 

Wilford backed away slightly, raising a brow and pulling lightly on his suspenders.

“Didn’t mean to shock you so much, Darky boy.”

Placing a hand on his own chest, the demon calmed his breathing (when did that get so bad?) and got up, scooting the chair back and walking over to the armoire, opening the ornate doors and shuffling through it before grabbing some towels and walking back to the mess he had created stiffly. Wilford looked at the furniture, wandering closer as Dark cleaned up the mess.

The senior journalist opened the cabinet a bit more, peering into the open space, which was stacked neatly, albeit gathering a bit of dust from lack of use, vintage and oddly designed cups and vases resting snuggly on shelves lining the side of it, along with another row of books, and towels in the side doors. There was a kettle, and spoke to hang it over the fireplace that Wilford had only just now noticed was dying down, as if it needed attention, but wasn’t receiving any. Laughably, Warfstache liked comparing his friend to the fire, despite him being so frozen to the touch. If you don’t stoke a fire, it eventually goes down to an ember and suffocates itself with lack of oxygen. 

Wilford took a hold of one of the cups, running his fingers over it, a deep ‘D’ engraved on it, along with some rhinestone finish.

“This is probably a bitch to clean,” he thought out loud.

Dark looked up from where he was cleaning the liquid, pausing at what he saw.

“It is,” the Demon replied curtly, going back to his task, although it wasn’t calculated, or collected. He just wanted it done so he could have a reason to tell the Colonel- No! This was Wilford. To tell /Wilford/ to get the hell out of his study. A ringing was beginning to crackle from his aura as Dark scrubbed his desk and the floor.

The pinkstached man blinked as he was assaulted by the horrid screeching of the damned starting to emit from the man crouched over the floor. He seemed upset.

“Hey, pal, you okay?”

“What gave it away, the screeching?”

“You’re scrubbing a spot with no liquid to the point of burning a hole in the floor.”

“...Oh.”

Wilford set the cup back down, wandering back over to the man who was frantically cleaning. He managed to get all the liquid up and began to pick up the pieces of the broken teacup, focusing on items and not the ringing in his ears and head. When his friend laid a hand on his shoulder, however, his finger slipped and a long gash was a result, deep black and red blood dripping from the cut. Dark just stopped moving completely.

“Oh.”

The reporter tilted his head, kneeling down and making to grab the broken glass and remove it himself. Dark gripped his wrist to stop him and Wilford pushed forward, making the demon stumble a bit, not expecting the strength behind it. He fell off to the side and hit the floor with his opposite elbow.

“No need to push,” Dark grumbled as he pushed himself back up.

Wilford grabbed the bloodied glass piece. Dark was still holding his wrist, and his own pink shirt sleeve was darkening with the blood dripping from the gray fingers holding him still.

“You’re much weaker when distracted,” the pinkstached man noted.

Dark stiffened, his grip tightening before relaxing again as his anger spiked and then settled again, blinking a few times as his newly blue iris faded to red before back to grey.

That’s something Dark had to deal with constantly.

Anger.

Damien was pissed.

Celine was pissed.

And Dark was always seething, or fuming, when the two were triggered. This time wasn’t any different, but the Demon had been trying to fight it lately. He had been trying to fight a lot of things lately.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Wilford raised a brow, looking up at his friend, surprised.

“No fight? No harsh remark?”

Dark narrowed his eyes and Wilford laughed a bit in his throat.

“It’s not that I want you to fight me, old friend. I’m just a bit surprised. Reminds me of a bloke I met a long, long time ago. At least, I think I knew him? This old brain isn’t what it used to be.”

Dark was quiet as Wilford went back to picking up the pieces.

“We poked fun at the guy. Sensitive soul. Cried at little things. He broke a teacup once, while I was over. His sister made him leave the room because he was crying. He wasn’t gone but two minutes before he came back in, seething, and did the same thing you did. Cut his finger picking up the pieces, and started crying again. It was a right good show until he got into bawling baby bitch territory.”

The demon bit his lip and let go of his friend, getting up, cradling his injured hand as he hurriedly left the room, not even bothering with the door as he just teleported away from where it was. The fire went out. 

He landed in the infirmary, startling the Jims, who were there for a checkup.

Dr. Iplier didn’t even jump as he sensed the other.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Dark?”

“Just came to grab some gauze and medical tape, carry on.”

“Is this for a victim, or for you,” the Doctor replied, not looking up from his notepad, “I don’t want you using my stock for your sick pleasure. It’s to help people you want to live, not delay the pain and then ultimately have them killed. It’s a waste of bandages.”

“Me,” Dark bit out testily.

The doctor seemed surprised.

“Oh, you’re hurt?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing.”

The Jims noticed the blood coating the Demon’s hands, pressed against his abdomen, cradled carefully to avoid it spilling. It looked much worse than it was.

“THE DEMON! HE BLEEDS!”

The Doctor looked up at this, unamused.

“Be quiet, or no treat at the end of this.”

The Jims quieted down, but their eyes didn’t leave Dark’s hands as the Demon, a bit unnerved, walked away from them, shifting through the first-aid kit and grabbing what he needed. Cleaning his wound and disinfecting it with a small hiss through his clenched teeth, the demon worked as if he had treated this specific type of wound before, and it was confusing, to say the least.

“Why do you know how to treat that,” Reporter Jim piped up, unable to hold his tongue. He was always very observant.

Dr. Iplier tsked.

“Google,” the demon lied smoothly.

“Google can treat ouchies?”

“Yes,” the demon lied again.

Dr. Iplier glared at him.

“Stop lying to them, they’re easily influenced!”

“Who said I was lying,” Dark challenged, closing the first-aid kit and shoving it back into its box, observing his newly bandaged hand. Eh, he’d had worse.

The door to the infirmary opened and The Jims barely had time to process anything before Dr. Iplier was shoved toward them and a ball of pink flurry came barreling towards Dark.

Dark yelped as he was grabbed and teleported away in a poof of pink.

The Jims looked at the spot of pink glitter standing where the two men had just been, the box still cracked open from where Dark’s fingers had been latching it shut.

“...Wow…”

“Can we teleport?”

“What if we teleported with fireworks!” Cameraman Jim yelled excitedly.

Dr. Iplier groaned and walked to go clean up the pink glitter mess Wilford adored leaving all over the place.

“You can’t teleport, Jim.”

“Phooey!”

When the two stopped teleporting, they crashed to the floor, Wilford holding the demon down in the tackle he had begun before they were whisked away.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Dark growled out, glaring up at the pink menace causing havoc in his normal life.

“Why did you leave so suddenly,” Wilford pushed, sitting back, holding the demon by his arms, pinning them down as he leaned down, staring intently into Dark’s grey eyes. A thin ring of blue and red was dancing around his pupil as the demon thrashed under him.

“Answer me,” he goaded, all sweetness as the journalist spoke. Dark wanted to slap him across the face.

“It’s nothing,” Dark growled, pulling at where his hands were being held down.

“Bullshit, tell me!”

“Let me go!”

“Why are you hiding from me!”

“Wilford, let me go!”

“Not until you tell me what the fuck I did wrong!”

“Let me go!”

“Tell me!”

“WILLIAM, LET ME GO!”

The air that had been building with intense ringing hit an all-time high and the glass in the room shattered, exploding everywhere. Wilford didn’t even care as it flew around him, some even cutting him and his clothing as it flew into the walls. He only cared about the fact that that name sound familiar, and that Dark had said it.

“What...What did you call me?”

Dark turned off to face the side, cheek resting against the floor as he stared off into nothing.

“Dark...Dark, I’m being serious, old pal, what did you just call me?”

There was no answer, and the pinkstached man was beginning to tighten his grip on the other to get a reaction. Dark couldn’t feel the warmth of his hands, and Wilford’s own fingers were freezing from the prolonged contact.

“...Dark, please.”

The demon turned to face him again, just staring up at him dully.

“William. I called you William. I had a client with the name, once upon a time. It’s a slip of the tongue.”

Something warm and wet dripped down his face and landed on the demon’s, sliding into the crook of his neck as he stared boredly right back. His eyes were grey, bordering on black, no blue or red anywhere to be seen. This was all Dark.

“You really don’t remember, do you?”

Wilford blinked, a few more tears escaping.

“Remember what?”

“William. Damien. Celine. Abe. Benjamin. Mark. You don’t remember anything, do you?”

The aura was coming back.

“I don’t...What are these names, Dark?”

A few more tears fell and Dark began pushing himself back up, Wilford being pushed back as Dark loomed over him.

“The Colonel.”

Wilford cried a little more, confused as he scrubbed at his pinkening cheeks.

“The Mayor.”

“Dark, what-”

“Who do you think that kid was, William?”

“I-I’m not-”

“That was your best friend, Colonel.”

“D-Dar-”

“That bawling baby bitch. That was Damien.”

Wilford began backing away, Dark crawling right after him.

“You’re frightening, ch-chap.”

“Do you want to know why he cried?”

Wilford backed away more.

“It reminded him he was human.”

Dark loomed closer.

Wilford refused to look at him, shaking now, tears trailing down his burning face, salt irritation turning the pigment violent pink against the tan complexion.

“It reminded him he could feel more than anger and loneliness.”

Dark tilted his head, his eyes were bright blue right now, as was most of his aura, Celine having stepped back to let Damien have this. Dark hooked his fingers under his chin and forced him to look up.

“Look at me, dammit!”

The journalist finally opened his eyes and more tears left him.

“That child. Was me.”

Dark shoved him away.

"I would give /anything/ to feel that sadness again."


End file.
